


The Case of the Staged Murders

by JustNeededAUsername



Series: The Case File of Minor Tales [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Friendship, Gen, Inspired by Buffy the Vampire Slayer but nothing supernatural - It is not as weird as it might sound, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27231937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustNeededAUsername/pseuds/JustNeededAUsername
Summary: A couple of one shots with minor cases for the Baker Street Boys inspired by a mixture of episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and the cruel reality of crime that we sometimes face. Nothing supernatural, the BTVS episodes just got my imagination going. No knowledge of the episodes needed.
Series: The Case File of Minor Tales [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1878043
Kudos: 3





	The Case of the Staged Murders

Rose petals. _Romantic gesture_.

Candles. _Likewise_.

 _Predictable. Boring._ If not for the body upstairs.

There must have been music too to complete the picture of perfect romance. But it was shut off now. Probably by the first responders on site. What music? Probably something sappy. _Not important_.

Living room; Many books. Old books, first editions. Many different subjects, but mostly classical literature and books about classical literature. _Enthusiast. Possibly librarian or bookstore keeper who can use work time to peruse for books for their personal collection._ Heavy, good-quality furniture. Carpets on the floor. _Most likely middle aged person living here._ Lack of decorative items. _Male_.

The trail of petals – _Rose smell; real petals. Quite an investment_ – and candles lead upstairs.

Not waiting for an invitation, Sherlock strolls up the steps. Six steps up and the full picture is revealed. The stairs do not lead to a full second floor, but just an upstairs room, a larger alcove; the bedroom. And in the bed lays a woman, approximately 35 years old, her head turned to face anyone ascending the stairs. _Beautifully staged_.

“Sherlock…” John’s voice, warning and disapproving. Probably said that last thing out loud. Apparently insensitive.

“You know what I mean,” Sherlock rolls his eyes. Not an apology, and yet it often seems to mitigate John in the same way as if it was one. Maybe because it is sincere, unlike what an apology would have been. He had meant exactly what he had said, but not in the way that most people would interpret it. Donovan, Anderson, most of the Yard thinks he enjoys it – Death. He doesn’t. If he did, he would be well on his way to becoming the country’s most productive serial killer by now. The Yard should be thankful to be wrong. He enjoys the mystery. Be it murder, kidnapping, robbery – The crime doesn’t matter. As long as there is mystery. As long as it is interesting. As long as it keeps boredom at bay. ‘You know what I mean’ conveys all of this in five small words, and John understands. He is one of the very few who understands.

Sherlock steps aside and lets the Doctor approach the body while skimming over the bedroom. Nothing seems to have been moved; No clean spots in the dust on the furniture, no impressions in the carpet from removed furniture. But there is one peculiar object that clearly does not belong. An old gramophone. Not a normal object in a bedroom, though not impossible. But the surface around and under the object is equally dusted, so it must have been placed there very recently.

“She has only been dead for about four to six hours,” John informs, “Cause of death… It seems her neck was broken. But there doesn’t seem to be any signs of a fall or similar that could cause a broken neck.”

Before John can continue, Sherlock switches on the gramophone and the room fills with music. _O Soave Fanciulla, La Bohème, 1896_. Not some sappy pop song. _Interesting_. It had clearly played a part in luring the person who had found the woman to the bedroom.

Of cause; _Librarian/Bookstore keeper, middle aged, heavy furniture, first editions_. Classical person. Would find La Bohème much more alluring than modern love songs.

He finally turns his attention to the woman, pulling a pair of blue gloves from his coat. He quickly confirms what John said about cause of death. He trusts the Doctor’s judgement about time of death. She is dressed in earth colours, suiting of her skin tone and dark hair. Not expensive but still good quality. Not much make-up. _The murderer did not change her clothes. She was professional but nothing where she needed to or wanted to stand out. Blending in, but with authority._ Practical shoes. _Standing up a lot_. Small trace of chalk on her right sleeve. _Worked at blackboard. Teacher. Right-handed_. Soft perfume, but no other smells, so whatever she taught, it did not leave any lingering smells. _Clean environment_. Spade shaped fingertips, all fingertips but the thumbs, and short nail. _Wrote a lot on keyboard; worked with computers. IT teacher. Used a blackboard to write down assignments or demonstrate the lesson for the students, but of cause also worked a lot by the computer, thereby flattening her fingertips from extended use of keyboard, though not on the thumbs as they only touched the keyboard on the outer side of the finger and not the softer tip._

The music is interrupted when Lestrade pulls the tonearm away with a sigh of relief. _Not a fan of the classics_.

The Inspector takes a deep breath and tensely states; “Victim is Jenny Calendar, 34. Found by the resident of the house. They were colleagues who started dating two months ago. She is a teacher and he is a librarian at a local school. He thought that she had planned a romantic gesture, but instead found her like this.”

“Jesus…” John mutters, sending a sad, emphatic look at the body. _Sentiment. Don’t answer, let John handle it._

“Yeah. So please tell me you have something, Sherlock,” Lestrade sighs, rubbing his eyes. _Traces of three meals scattered around his clothing, worked since this morning, equalling working for his 14 th hour this day._

“The murderer is strong. Broke her neck with his bare hands, not an easy feat. Barely any trace of him in the apartment, despite the ‘romantic gesture’, as you called it. This is not his first murder.”

“But there is something?” John asks, making Sherlock stand up and look at him with a gleam in his eye in appreciation of his clever Doctor, making John explain himself in embarrassment under Sherlock’s gaze, almost apologetic; “You said ‘Barely any trace’, not ‘No trace’.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock smiles, “Though there is no physical trace of the murderer, his modus operandi tells an intriguing story. He clearly knows them – And yes, it is a ‘he’, considering his ability to snap Ms Calendar’s neck and carry her up the stairs to the bedroom, I am sure you noticed the lack of drag marks in the carpet – He knew they were in the beginning of a romantic relationship. He knew that she was the type to stage a romantic evening like this, a surprise for her librarian boyfriend. He also knew the librarian. The music is aimed at him. It is not something she would listen to. She is more modern. He also knew that she knew that and that she would accommodate the librarian.”

“So, he’s a stalker?” John asks, though his voice sounds sceptical towards his own question.

“No, no, no, no. He is something much more elegant than that. He collects information and then uses it in the most damaging way possible. Creates hope and joy, just to destroy it moments later,” Sherlock steeples his fingers in front of his face as he starts deducing the intriguing brain patterns of his new pastime.

“Does that mean that he was here to see the result of his… work?” John once again asks the right question.

“No. He doesn’t have to. But why not? Everything is perfectly staged. He hunts, he kills, he sets the stage and then doesn’t watch the final act? Why?” Sherlock talks more to himself than his peers at this point.

“You said this was not his first murder?” Lestrade interrupts, still caught up in minutes old statements. _Typical_.

“Obviously. You do not become this good or clean without practice. You should look for similar cases. Probably cases where the lover or spouse was arrested for the murder. I have no doubt Anderson would love to pin this on the librarian, but I doubt lifting heavy books have made him capable of breaking necks. Plus, if he wanted to kill her, it would be a new level of stupidity to do it in his own home, no matter how creative the staging,” Sherlock cannot help the jab at the forensic so-called-scientist. But it is very likely a part of the play as well. Stage the scene, present an obvious suspect; Spouse, lover, new date – Statistics are in his favour. Make everyone play their part, even the police.

“Right…” Lestrade rubs his eyes, clearly not looking forward to going through God-knows-how-many old cases, “So, you don’t need to talk to the boyfriend?”

“No. A quick look just to confirm that the man doesn’t have the right physique should do,” Sherlock states indifferently.

“Thank God!” Lestrade exclaims, making John and Sherlock turn abruptly towards the Inspector. Lestrade looks apologetic for a second, but then sighs; “Honestly Sherlock… You staying away from living victims and relatives usually saves me a lot of trouble.”

Sherlock looks a little offended before settling back on indifferent, maybe even a bit relieved himself to avoid human contact. John just giggles.

Lestrade decides to diffuse the situation by leading the Detective and Doctor downstairs and out of the apartment. The apartment opens to a green yard, a common area for the apartment building, that is currently framed by three police cars. Curious neighbours are buzzing around the perimeter, peering through the open front door to the apartment, trying to catch a glimpse of why the police is here.

On a bench, a middle-aged man is staring blankly at the ground while Sergeant Donovan is asking questions and taking notes, though the answers she is getting seems to be single syllabled or non-existing.

Sherlock slides a quick look down the man and turns to Lestrade; “Didn’t do it”, and then strolls down the pathway of the yard.

John gives Lestrade a quick nod, which Lestrade answers in kind, before following the Detective.

-.-.-.-

Sherlock is restlessly pacing the apartment. He has spent last night and half of the day in his mind palace, studying the current crime scene again and again, and going over files of old cases, looking for a lead.

Nothing.

Nothing, nothing, _nothing!_

Spouse/boyfriend/girlfriend/lover killing spouse/boyfriend/girlfriend/lover. It is too _generic_. Too _common_.

The files he has memorised all sounds the same. No one has had the brains to note if there has been anything special about these cases. Jealousy. Anger. A lot of infidelity. _Boring_.

“Sherlock, sit down. Your pacing is burning a hole in the floor,” John doesn’t look up from his book, too accustomed to Sherlock’s moods to make a big deal of it, but none the less annoyed with the blue robe swiping over the pages of his book every other second. He is trying to use his authoritarian voice, a little bit of captain mixed in his annoyed tone. Must have requested Sherlock to sit down prior to this request. Didn’t hear. Not important.

“How can this country allow itself to have a police force that cannot correctly account for the crime scenes, John? They don’t see anything of importance. All the files are without any detail or finesse or simple thought,” Sherlock sneers.

“…Files?” John looks around the living room. Despite being filled with papers and files, he has not seen Sherlock look in any of them and he is fairly sure no new files have been added since last night.

“In here, John!” Sherlock points to his head.

“Ah, yes, of course” John answers without any surprise, “But can’t you read through them _in there_ while sitting down?”

“Which part of the files being useless escaped your comprehension?” Sherlock grits out.

“Right…” John puts down his book, apparently deciding that the situation calls for his full attention – _About time_ , “Look, you said it yourself; There was barely any evidence at the scene. Nothing that would particularly stand out in any file. You were lucky that Greg even called you in. That was actually rather good instinct on his part-“

“Hah! Even a blind mole could see the librarian couldn’t do it,” Sherlock interferes.

“-So, of course it would be difficult for any related cases to stand out on paper,” John ignores Sherlock’s comment, “I am sure Greg will let you know if he finds anything.”

“But he is taking too long!” Sherlock stomps on the floor like an impatient child.

“Then go do an experiment, or something! Weren’t you messing around with kidneys yesterday?”

Sherlock immediately stops his pacing and looks offended at John; “I don’t ‘mess around’ with intestines. It is an important experient. A case might depend on the results.”

“What case?”

“… Don’t ask questions to what you cannot possibly understand,” Sherlock starts pacing again.

Before the bickering can continue, quick steps on the stairs interrupts them. As soon as the door flings open, Sherlock greedily snatches the box of files from Lestrade’s hands and takes them to the couch.

John stands up and properly greets the Inspector before, true to form, offering tea. Lestrade turns to the Detective who is opening the box as if it is Christmas morning; “We stayed up most of the night going through those. They all have little, unusual details compared to the usual domestic cases.”

Instead of answering, Sherlock waves at the Inspector as if he were an annoying fly.

Lestrade just shakes his head and then drops exhaustedly into Sherlock’s chair. He studies the Detective as he opens a file, looks over it so quickly that Lestrade doubts he actually reads anything, and then flings the file on the couch with a low, dismissive growl. Lestrade points a finger at the Detective; “Hey, be careful with those!”

Sherlock sends another dismissive growl at the Inspector.

“I know he can seem rude,” John hands a cup to Lestrade, “But you really learn to appreciate these short moments where he _doesn’t_ use his words.”

Lestrade sniggers and accepts the tea. After a thankful sip he asks Sherlock; “Anything useful?”

“You should fire sergeant Addams,” Sherlock states, still emerged in the files, “His spelling is appalling.”

“See? Much better without the words,” John smiles as he lifts his own cup to his lips.

“Useful to the investigation, Sherlock…” Lestrade defeatedly clarifies.

Sherlock doesn’t answer, his eyes scanning a file vigorously. He then pushes the now half-empty box aside and steps over the table, in direct line to the Inspector, demanding; “This one. Tell me about this one.”

Lestrade takes the file, skimming it while Sherlock paces impatiently right in front of his chair, three steps before turning and walking three steps back again.

Once he recognises the case, Lestrade starts relating what he remembers; “Right. Dimmock oversaw this one, but I heard about it. Female victim. Found by her mother – She was young, still lived at home. She was found in her bedroom, drowned in her aquarium. The bizarre thing was that on the scene, they found a piece of string where the fish from the aquarium had been stringed on, like a fishing line,” Lestrade turns a photo from the file to show to John, who nods in appreciation, “Her mother told us that her daughter had mentioned that she and a friend of hers were being stalked by an ex-boyfriend of the friend. The friend confirmed this. He was following the victim, trying to convince her to ask her friend to get back together with him. He was arrested, but they didn’t have any proof to keep him, so he walked. As I remember, he had a bad reputation and no reliable alibi for the time of death, but there was no forensic evidence to put him at the crime scene.”

“It’s him,” Sherlock states.

“The ex is our murderer?” Lestrade asks with hope.

“No, of course not. Our murderer would never be so stupid as to murder someone he had so obviously followed and disturbed. No, the murderer of Jenny Calendar is also behind this murder and he framed the ex-boyfriend beautifully,” Sherlock turns in front of the fireplace and looks between the Inspector and Doctor, seeing their disapproving faces but chooses to ignore it; “Don’t you see? No, no, of course you don’t. No one sees him, the subtle little things he does. The fish line!”

“What about the fish line?” John asks impatiently.

“It was how he lured the victim!” Sherlock exclaims, “She must have walked into her room, seen the fish line and while she was trying to understand what she was seeing, he attacks her.”

“But why did he count on the stalker-ex-boyfriend being arrested? He was not the victim’s ex-boyfriend, but her friend’s. Seems a bit odd, doesn’t it?” John asks with a frown.

“Oh! Yes! Exactly!” Sherlock smirks at John before his eyes becomes unfocused and he starts to ramble on, mostly to himself, “He made a mistake… He saw that she was being followed by her friend’s ex-boyfriend but didn’t realise that he was not her ex-boyfriend. He staged the murder, counting on the ex-boyfriend to be blamed. But he didn’t because his real objective was the friend. No proof. No motive. When was the fish line murder?”

The last question is said out louder, aimed at whoever capable to answer. Lestrade registers it a moment later and checks the file; “Almost ten years ago.”

“He didn’t take enough time to investigate his victim. Young and reckless,” Sherlock moves back to the couch and starts flipping through the remaining files in the box.

John and Lestrade are allowed to empty their cups before Sherlock once again rises from the couch, throwing another file at Lestrade; “This one too. Four years later. Young girl. A drawing of her sleeping found on the floor. First thing someone would see entering her room before seeing her laying in her bed strangled. Just broke up with her boyfriend of three years who was arrested for her murder.”

Lestrade flips the file open, but doesn’t really look at the pictures, knowing the Detective has already seen what he needs to see; “So what are you saying, Sherlock? That his calling card is leaving these little things to catch people’s attention before the ugly surprise of finding one of their love ones dead?”

“Oh no, no, no, no. It is so much more than that. Maybe it is catching the attention of people, luring them, making them curious, creating expectation before destroying them…” Sherlock’s voice turns absent as he speaks and once again starts walking back and forth in front of the two occupied chairs, caught up in his own thoughts.

“But why? Is he just plain evil?” John asks, mostly to get Sherlock to speak out loud again.

“Evil is not a motive,” Sherlock sneers, but it is mostly just a reflex to get the last word, Sherlock still being caught up in his own head.

“Alright. But besides these ‘attention catchers’, what do these victims have in common? I don’t see anything in their files…. And I don’t see a connection to the teacher either. How did he pick them?” Lestrade waves the files in an attempt to get Sherlock’s attention.

Sherlock responds with a dismissive growl.

Lestrade and John looks between Sherlock and each other, silently communicating; _He is not going to tell us more is he? No, don’t think so. Nothing to do but wait now. Gosh, this is irritating. But what choice to we have?_

Finally, Lestrade gets up; “Alright, then. I’ll go see what we can dig up on these girls. Call me when you have anything else, okay? Please, for once, don’t go running off by yourselves?”

Sherlock completely ignores the Inspector and John sends him a tight, pre-case-apologetic smile.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so either,” Lestrade sighs and leaves with a defeated wave at John.

-.-.-.-

John leaves Sherlock to his own head for the time being. He is dying to know what is happening in that intriguing and complicated brain of his friend and flatmate, but he also knows that nothing good comes from pushing the Detective for information. Most likely, he will receive an epic sulk and be excluded from the investigation until absolutely necessary.

So instead, he goes about his normal day. He continues reading his book. He goes for a quick cup of tea with Mrs. Hudson, not because the smell of newly baked scones suddenly started filling the house, of course.

Sherlock just lays on the couch.

He makes some quick dinner. He tries to get Sherlock to eat but does not receive a response. He places a plate in front of the Detective hoping that the smell will encourage him to eat. An hour later, he removes the cold, untouched food. He checks the comments on his blog and Sherlock’s website, finding nothing of interest.

Sherlock just lays on the couch.

John will always tell whoever might ask that he is content with these quiet days. And most of the time he truly is. But, though John will never admit it, he hates the days when Sherlock is just laying on the couch during a case. When he is laying in silence, probably thinking more elaborate and intricate thoughts than John could ever dream to follow. He just has to wait for the conclusion and hope that he can at least comprehend that.

It was different when Sherlock is present, when they can talk during their shared time. There was nothing to wait for, just companiable existence.

He cannot say that Sherlock didn’t warn him, that he would be silent for days. But back then, John didn’t know what he would be missing out on. The excitement that moving in with Sherlock would bring back in to his life.

It was not a new feeling. It was similar to the feeling when waiting for the enemy to attack, knowing that it would happen, that it was just a matter of time, but not knowing when. Waiting for Sherlock was not as adrenaline-filled as waiting for the enemy, but the thrumming through his veins was just as impatient.

Despite it being a quiet day, John decides to take a shower. He was going to have one last night, but then Lestrade called regarding the murder, and when they finally came back home, John had just gone straight to bed. This morning, Lestrade had once again interrupted his rhythm. He could wait until the morning, but with the hope that Sherlock was soon to take him on their next adventure, he opted for an evening shower.

He goes to his bedroom to fetch fresh underwear and a pyjama to wear afterwards. The simple action makes him look forward to the soon soothing, warm water. Maybe it will take away some of the anticipation from his body, so he can catch a good night’s sleep, which his body is probably craving more than he recognises after the late night yesterday.

As he opens the shower curtain, he instantly tenses again. In the bottom of the shower he finds a big, black tub filled with water and a suspicious looking black garbage bag in it. There is no doubt something inside the bag, as it is sitting on the bottom of the tub. Despite basic, human curiosity, John has no need to open the bag and find out what exactly is in there. This is probably where the kidneys went yesterday.

In a sudden burst of frustration, John barely remembers to grab a towel to cover himself before he marches to the living room; “Sherlock! What the bloody hell is that tub in the shower?”

No answer. Not helping.

“It cannot possibly be so difficult for a self-proclaimed genius to keep body parts and suspicious bags in water away from the few places in a home that should be kept clean and hygienic, like the oven, the refrigerator, the freezer and the _shower_!”

“Where else would I be able to fill a tub if not in the shower?” Sherlock recognises John’s existence. Still not helping.

“Outside, Sherlock! It does not belong in a place where people live! How many times do we have to have this discussion?! How many times do I have to repeat this before you compute!?”

“Repetition?” Sherlock frowns.

“Yes! How many ti-“ Before John completes his sentence, Sherlock jumps back to life from the couch.

“That’s it!” Sherlock grabs John’s shoulders, shaking him in emphasis, though still focused somewhere in his head, “He is experimenting! Repeating his murders. That is why the changes in the details are so subtle. That is why everything is so staged. He needs the results to be comparable.”

Tub forgotten, John immediately hangs on to the possibility of action; “But what is the background for the experiments? The method of killing?”

“No. Besides his first killing, he seems to have kept to strangling or breaking of necks. Quick and effective with his strength.”

“So, the fish-string murder was his first?”

“The evidence points towards it. He drowned the victim, probably a method of convenience more than a choice. He found that it was not satisfactory. Maybe he tried to strangle her but was unsuccessful. He was young, still evolving. His ‘attention catchers’, as Lestrade so dramatically named them, has been getting more sophisticated, from a string of fish, to a well-made drawing, to classic music. It gets more and more personal to the victims and more and more artistic for the murderer.”

“Alright. But why these women? Is it only women, I mean we don’t know how many murders he has actually committed?”

“We’ve already been through this, John, do try to keep up,” Sherlock turns and picks up John’s laptop. John has given up changing his password and just accepts that Sherlock uses it as needed.

“No, we haven’t. When Greg asked you earlier, what the connection between the victims is, you just ignored him.”

“There is no connection but the murderer,” Sherlock states, the ‘obviously’ poorly concealed in his tone.

“But there must be!” John exclaims.

Sherlock slams the laptop down in his lap; “Think, John, think! He is clever enough to leave practically no trace of himself and he perfectly stages his crimes to include the perfect scapegoat. Why would he be so careless as to choose victims with a clear link to each other or himself?”

“But he has to have some kind of hunting ground!” John insists.

“No… No, he has more than one!” Sherlock’s eyes become distant for a second before he once again focuses on the laptop. His fingers skates over the keyboard at rapid speed and soon he exclaims in success. He rises from his chair and finally acknowledges John, “Are you going to wear that?”

“What?”

“I believe a towel is a bit too cold for this time of year,” Sherlock picks up his scarf and slings it around his neck.

John runs to the bathroom and quickly puts on his dirty clothes, finally feeling relaxed again.

-.-.-.-

True to form, Sherlock doesn’t let John in on his plans. Instead they arrive at a large, older building with all lights out, clearly closed down for the night.

“Where are we?” John asks suspiciously.

“The school where Ms. Calendar worked,” Sherlock answers casually.

“’Right. And what are we doing here?” John already fears the answer.

“Looking at personnel files.”

“So why are we not here in the morning, where there are actual people, and Lestrade could get us in?” As Sherlock is a man who values logic above all else, John often wonders why this kind of logic never seem to work on the man, but he is not ready to give up trying.

“Boring,” Sherlock simply answers and digs into his coat and pulls out his lock-picking set.

John nervously looks around to make sure no one is watching them breaking and entering, cursing Sherlock out loud while inwardly thrumming with excitement.

Sherlock smoothly opens the door and floats through it. John quickly stumbles after him.

“What about alarms?” John whispers, as if anyone in the building might overhear them.

“During cost-cutting periods?” A helpful sign is pointing them in direction of the administration, and Sherlock quickly leads them down the corridor which is conveniently lighted by the street light through a row of windows, “It is easier and cheaper to lock up computers and similar valuables in cabinets at night. The only rooms with active alarms are the computer and chemistry classrooms and principal’s office. The chemistry room is mainly for insurance purposes. Luckily, personnel files are managed by a secretary, who, despite holding valuable, personal information, is deemed below any safety measures but a key.”

The last statement is underlined by Sherlock picking the filing cabinet and the drawer happily springing open for them.

“What are we looking for?” John cannot suppress the instinct to look up and down the corridor. Everything is quiet, but it feels delicate and just about to break.

“Our murderer,” Sherlock’s eyes glisten even in the dark as he flips through one personnel file after the other.

“He’s a teacher?” John asks in slight disbelief.

“Murderers come in all shapes and sizes, and occupations, Doctor,” Sherlock smirks.

“Right. But how did you know that we are looking for a teacher?”

“Someone who could watch Ms. Calendar and know her affiliation with the librarian. Someone who could watch two young women and catch on to one of them being followed and the other breaking up with her boyfriend. But without being too close to any of them. Capable of changing from one location to another to look for a new victim. So, what does two young women and a teacher have in common? The young women were close in age, both fitting with upper secondary school. Mrs. Calendar worked at an upper secondary school. They might not be going to the same school, but attending school is the only common factor.”

John gapes for a second before the familiar word slips past his lips, as often before when Sherlock relates his deductions; “Brilliant.”

Sherlock smirks but keeps shuffling through file after file, deducing one teacher after the other based on picture, age, length of employment and any disciplinary measures against the person. Many has been occupied for many years, not fitting the profile of the murderer. Many are also normal, stereo typical, boring. Three women with an above-normal number of cats. One man in need of glasses, judging by his atrocious shaving.

And then the file of Liam Murphy. Despite his dark eyes, his gaze shoots coldness from the glossy picture. Drama teacher.

_Of course._

Sherlock puts the file on the desk and John joins him after one last cautious glance down the empty corridor.

“This him?” John asks unnecessarily.

“Judging from his picture, he has the strength to strangle someone or break their neck. He has been employed for just short of a year, enough time to fit in and map out the social relations among his colleagues and pupils. Best in class and many recommendations from his education, so he is clearly intelligent and passionate. But also four disciplinary remarks for losing his temper at previous positions. As a drama teacher he surely knows how to set a stage and has a touch for the artistic.”

“Sounds promising,” John agrees, though he seems more tense than uplifted by their findings. The soldier preparing to face his enemy, absorbing necessary information to gain an advantage.

Sherlock flips another page; “And here we have it. He was employed at the schools of the other two victims at the times of their deaths.”

“That’s it. Let’s call Lestrade,” John reaches for his mobile, but Sherlock grabs his hand.

“Now, now, John. This is all circumstantial,” Sherlock tucks the file back in the cabinets and closes it, “We shouldn’t trouble the law enforcement without reasonable suspicion.”

“Sherlock…”

Sherlock just walks towards the exit door of the secretary’s office and calls over his shoulder; “Coming?”

-.-.-.-

As if John has a choice, he once again follows Sherlock in a cab to an unknown location, though this time, he has a bad feeling about where they are going. Therefore, he is not surprised when they pull up next to a small house in the outskirts of London, fitting of the salary of a potentially murderous drama teacher.

“You do realise that he is home?” John asks sceptically.

“Sleeping. Perfect time to take a look around,” Sherlock starts moving around to the back of the house.

“Please just call Lestrade,” Sherlock might never beg, but John is not above it. Why he doesn’t just do it himself never crosses his mind. John would normally describe himself as a man of action – in more ways than one – but when it comes to interrupting Sherlock’s plans, they have to be in grave danger before John performs the simple act of calling the Inspector.

Sherlock suddenly drops to the ground, looking through a dirty cellar window.

“Now what?” John crosses his arms, partly in agitation and partly against the cold, and nervously taps his foot.

Sherlock digs out a pocketknife and starts picking open the window. His hands move both elegantly and eagerly, quickly opening the worn hatch on the poorly maintained window.

Oh well. They are two against one. And they will just stay quiet and stick to the cellar. Can’t be too bad, can it? John knows he is only reasoning with himself as a poor excuse for the adrenaline rush of the breaking and entering. It is the actions of an addict. But it is for the greater good, right?

Sherlock slips through the narrow, open window and John squishes through. Though his height is normally a sensitive subject, in situations like this, he appreciates being smaller and more adroit.

They both just stand there for a moment while their eyes adjust to the darkness. They no longer have to suggest turning on the light to one another, as they have had that discussion many times. They don’t turn on the light when the building turns towards a street or they know or risk that anyone is home. In this case, the latter is highly probable.

The windows have been painted dark, letting in very little light, but slowly the room becomes clearer, and John understands what caught Sherlock’s all-seeing eye. The room is scattered with canvases, standing out white against the darkness, some with motives and others awaiting inspiration.

“Is this an atelier?” John barely whispers.

“Of sorts,” Sherlock nods towards an easel turned towards the window they had just entered, making John move closer.

His eyes finally fully adjusted, the image stands out frighteningly clear despite the scarce light. Even if John had not seen the motive before, it would still have sent chills down his spine. It was incredible lifelike, and the empty eyes of Jenny Calendar seemed to stare into his very core.

Realising what he is looking at, John walks from canvas to canvas, counting the ones already painted. He easily recognises the fish line case. There were mostly women, but also a few men in between. At least seven paintings from what he could see in the dark; “God… Sherlock. This is…”

“Yes,” Sherlock is studying the types of paint and paint brushes placed on a small table by Calendar’s portrait.

“No, Sherlock. We need to call Lestrade _now_ ,” John starts patting down his pants to find whatever damn pocket he has put his phone into this time.

But before he finds it, his left arm is grabbed and forced behind his back, and his neck is enclosed and pushed back against a hard, smooth surface. The pull on his arm stretches at his scar and the damaged tissue underneath, making him grit his teeth in pain.

It is not the first time John has been surprised from behind like this, but he cannot remember an arm around his neck feeling like steel. The steel isn’t tight enough to strangle him but it is none the less full of threat and intent.

Sherlock immediately straightens and John sees the second of panic flash in his eyes, though he doubts their antagonist notices it as Sherlock coolly asks; “Mr. Murphy, I presume?”

“And who might you be?” A young Irish accent slithers by John’s ear.

“A fan of your work,” Sherlock answers easily, his eyes dancing between John, the person behind John and the room. He takes an intake of breath and realisation dawns on him; “Motion sensors.”

“Yes. I need to protect my art, don’t I?” A quick tightening around John’s neck proves his point. John hisses at the movement, as his airway is shortly cut off.

Sherlock stares more intensely at him and quickly decides to distract Murphy; “Your paintings are beautiful. You clearly put a lot of work into it. But why? Why not just paint from your imagination? Why go through all the trouble of murdering all these people?”

For a moment, Murphy doesn’t answer. John fears that Sherlock might be wrong in his assessment of the Irishman. Maybe he is not one of the talkers. But of course, Sherlock is right. The clever ones hunger for an audience.

“I needed to understand them,” Murphy finally says.

“Understand what?” Sherlock prompts.

“Why they react the way they do.”

“Who? The victims?” Sherlock frowns, and John is a bit surprised that Sherlock truly seems not to have figured out this part of the case yet.

“No,” Murphy violently shakes his head and John along with him, pulling once again at his arm, “They are scared because they are going to die. It is biology. We are programmed by nature to want to survive. It is easy. But everyone else. Why do they do what they do?”

“You mean the relatives?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes. Death is natural. So why do they cry? Why do they get angry?” Murphy sounds deeply baffled and angered.

After a moment of silence, Sherlock states; “Sentiment.”

For a second, John feels like berating Sherlock. Experiencing someone dying, is not just ‘sentiment’. It is not something to be taken so lightly or degraded in the way that only Sherlock can. But John is not able to talk right now, and that gives him that second longer to actually study Sherlock’s face. The word is not meant degradingly, but as an answer to Murphy.

“We are a social species, and we create connections,” Sherlock continues, tense and awkward, “When those connections are removed, we drift. If we are not able to catch on to a new one, we tend to get lost. Therefore, it hurts. Because we are suddenly in danger of becoming lost.”

Despite the unsure delivery of the metaphor, the words spread warmth in John’s chest.

Murphy seems too deep in thought to answer, so Sherlock presses on, carefully stepping a centimetre closer; “You must recognise it from the theatre. I’ve seen your file. You are very good at-”

“That is the problem!” Murphy suddenly screams, making John wish he could close his ear from the sudden assault, “All the plays say the same! Sadness, despair, anger, all these emotions, but they never say why! It doesn’t make any sense!”

“So, you stage these perfect murders and watch as it plays out. You even participate in multiple roles yourself. You murder these people and then watch, maybe even talk, to the people left behind. Dissecting, studying their feelings? Becoming part of the story,” Sherlock deduces.

“Yes. Yes! You understand? Don’t you?” Murphy sounds hopeful.

“Human emotions are not my forte. I have long believed that caring is not an advantage and never understood why people would complicate their lives with relationships and stepping carefully around each other to not risk hurting each other. But I have become somewhat more knowledgeable on the subject as of lately,” Sherlock allows a quick look at John, and the warmth is enforced.

“How? What did you do? Please, tell me. Maybe I can recreate that as well!”

Murphy gets so caught up in discussing human behaviour with Sherlock, that John suddenly feels the iron arm slacking around his neck. It is just enough for John to make his move, so he quickly grabs the man’s wrist with his right hand, twisting it painfully to create even more space for him to squirm out. Murphy cries out in pain, and instinctively moves just the way John expected.

Sherlock follows John’s moves and soon Murphy has paint splashed across his face. He lets go of John, clawing at the paint to keep it away from his eyes and mouth.

Sherlock takes advantage of the opening and smashes one of the empty canvases down Murphy’s head, not so much to hurt him, but to cut of his view of John’s next move. John fires some well-placed punches to the man’s abdomen and when he crumbles to the floor, he gives him one final punch to the head. Sherlock swipes behind the man and quickly catches his hands with a pair of handcuffs from his coat.

Murphy stays down, looking as if he wants nothing more than to scream at the two victors, but the paint keeps him from opening his mouth. He blinks, trying to find a way out without getting paint in his eyes as well, but he only recognises that both John and Sherlock are ready to properly knock him out if he makes a move towards one of them. He stays sitting on the floor, growling in lack of being able to do much else.

John quickly catches Sherlock’s eye, and they send a small nod at each other, letting the other know that they are alright. Both men are slightly panting. Sherlock is unharmed, but John grabs at his shoulder in a weak attempt to lessen the ache in the muscle.

“Can we call Lestrade now?” John looks pointedly at Sherlock, and for once the man obeys and fishes his mobile from his coat.

-.-.-.-

“And what were you doing inside Mr. Murphy’s house?” Lestrade sighs and rubs his eyes. _Another 14-hour workday._

“We thought we saw someone in distress,” Sherlock lies too easily yet so obviously.

“Really?” Lestrade asks sceptically.

“Yes. Must have been one of his pictures playing a trick in the light,” The look Sherlock sends the Inspector dares him to question his statement.

But Lestrade is, none the less, smarter than taking that dare; “Right… Right. Bloody hell. Just stay here, okay? I’ll be right back with someone to take your statement.”

Lestrade moves to direct some newly arrived police officers, leaving Sherlock standing by John, who is sitting in the back of an ambulance after having his neck and shoulder checked out. He tried to avoid it – He is a Doctor after all, he knows nothing is wrong – But Sherlock kept steering them towards the luminescent vehicle.

“So… Motion sensors?” John asks.

“Yes. Should have noticed,” Sherlock sneers bitterly.

“It was dark. Even you can’t see in the dark,” John tries to comfort him.

Sherlock answers with a non-committal sound, clearly not agreeing, and looks away. After a moment of silence, he asks into the night; “How’s your arm?”

John can’t help the small smile that sets on his lips and despite the slight ache he is still feeling, he answers; “Fine, Sherlock. Just fine.”

“Good. That’s… good.”

John looks at Sherlock, who is still pointedly looking away; “You are nothing like him, you know? If you ever wonder, just think of why you asked me that question just now.”

They sit a moment longer, watching the police scattering around the area outside the small house.

“If we leave now, Lestrade won’t notice and we don’t have to give him an official statement until tomorrow,” Sherlock whispers.

Despite being a statement, John catches the underlying question and need to get away from this ‘sentimental’ conversation. He chuckles and just answers; “Tea and biscuits at 221B?”

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Based on the BTVS episode Passion.
> 
> I believe this will be the last instalment in this series. This was a bit painful to write, so I think it is time to stop. I hope it isn’t as painful to read.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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